When the words of Bob Dylan
mixed inside of me with
a sentimental loneliness,
you entered my mind.
It's been a while.
When we last spoke,
you had reappeared, shortly,
from a mysterious absence.
You told me that
you didn't want to bother me
with your "Melodramatic Hellos"
I lied in bed,
running over it all;
things I regret saying,
an appreciation that I didn't express,
though I felt it,
though I still feel it.
Where are you now,
Darling Dearest?
What bed do you sleep in,
that I maybe be there
when you awaken?
When will you again grace me
with a Melodramatic Hello?
You see all these things in me,
things I dont see.
You like me,
flatter me,
adore me.
I smile to all of this,
and with hands
that have always been clumsy,
but could once hold so tenderly,
I drop you,
I hurt you,
I break you.
Its a pattern that follows me,
that has become part of me.
Because I dont know romance
without pain,
Because I have been a fragile object
in feminine hands,
dropped and dropped again.
I see the pieces of you
around my feet,
and I feel terrible.
I want to pick you up,
and put you back together, but
I know Ill drop you again.
So I put the all the broken parts
in a pile.
an
What could be overstated
in seven couplets,
or whatever rhyme scheme,
or however many verses...
Inspired by your simplicity,
I will say:
I like the things you tell me.
The lightness in you
meets a heaviness in me;
sometimes it makes me feel airborne.
It floats me through
the night-fallen world
on beautiful words.
In the morning tides
it lays me in your bed,
on a promise.